


Domesticity

by punkphantom



Series: projecting my ace subtype on Jon [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftercare, Chores, Collars, Communication, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dom/sub, Gags, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Kneeling, M/M, Praise Kink, Punishment, Safeword Use, Scene Gone Wrong, Service Submission, tea but make it kinky, yes again don't judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28586298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkphantom/pseuds/punkphantom
Summary: Jon's had a bad day, so he asks Martin to help him feel useful. It works, until it doesn't.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: projecting my ace subtype on Jon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2094627
Comments: 8
Kudos: 134





	Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even gonna lie, I'm constantly mentally drained, and half of this is just me fantasizing about dropping calculus and becoming a humanities major trophy husband. Please, God, stop making me do integrals. Anyways the other half is me being mean to Jon

Martin can hear the front door slam all the way from the bedroom. Jon’s footsteps are heavy as he trudges up the stairs, walking into their room and falling face first onto the bed.

“Fuck,” he says into the sheets.

Martin sets his book aside for a moment. “Bad day?”

Jon grumbles, rolling closer to Martin until he takes the hint and pulls him into a hug. “Yes. Something went wrong with the library database and nothing I did to try and fix it worked," he says, "and then I snapped at Liza from IT when she offered to help, and I apologized but I think she’s still upset with me, and she’s just too nice to say anything about it, and now I feel awful.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, love. Is there anything I could do to help?”

Jon’s quiet for a moment. “Would you do a scene with me?”

“I mean, it’ll depend on why.”

“I just want to make up for it, I guess? And I want to feel useful. So probably service, and some punishment, but I don't want you to be mean.”

“How about this,” Martin says. “You go change into something more comfortable, and I’ll get some supplies. I’ll give you a punishment - you can decide what it is, if you like - and then there are some chores that I can have you do for me. Does that sound alright?”

“Yes, that’s good. Can I have a spanking, please?”

“Sure. Do you want a few hard hits, or several lighter ones?”

“A few hard hits. With a paddle.”

“I’ll meet you in the living room when you’re ready?”

"Okay," Jon says. He gives Martin a kiss on the cheek as he leaves, already feeling lighter.

Martin takes the time to settle into his role for the night while Jon changes. He makes a cup of tea to calm his nerves while he waits, before taking his place on the sofa. He sips as he imagines how Jon will look after his punishment, soft and pliant, and a tiny shiver of excitement runs through him at the thought. 

Jon comes quietly into the room, standing hesitantly at the threshold. He’s still fidgety, wearing pajama bottoms and one of Martin’s t-shirts. It engulfs his small frame, the neckline so wide it’s nearly slipping off his shoulder. Martin doesn’t even try to hide his staring as he sets his half-empty cup of tea aside. Jon looks at the floor rather than meet his eyes, a small, embarrassed smile on his face.

“Come here. Kneel.”

He goes a bit hot at Martin’s tone, commanding and expectant. “Yes sir,” he says, swiftly obeying.

“Give me your hands.” Jon presents his wrists, holding still as Martin buckles a pair of cuffs around them. They’re thick, unpadded leather things that aren’t uncomfortable, per se, but their presence is impossible to forget. 

Martin leaves Jon’s hands apart for now, letting the chain hang from one, and releases them. Jon places them in his lap, palms up on his thighs, and fiddles with the chain. His eyes dilate as Martin brings out the collar that goes with the cuffs. It’s not his favorite, being similarly unpadded, but tonight isn’t about his comfort. “Do you want to be collared?”

“Yes,” Jon says, quietly, reverently, gazing with open longing at the collar in Martin’s hand.

“Beg me for it.”

“Please,” Jon starts, stuttering into his own humiliation, “please collar me. Please, I want it so bad, sir, I want you to claim what’s yours. I want you to own me, I want to be yours to command, please, Martin, please collar me. Please let me belong to you, please.” Jon begs earnestly, looking up at Martin with imploring eyes.

“Good boy. I suppose I will, since you’re such a needy little thing for it. Chin up.” Jon obeys immediately, allowing Martin to secure the collar around his throat, just snug enough to be the tiniest bit uncomfortable. His breath hitches as he hears the telltale click of a small padlock. “Stand up, pet.”

Jon stands, and yelps as Martin pulls him immediately back down, tugging him off-balance so he falls forwards over Martin’s lap. He shifts a bit to get more comfortable, but settles quickly. Jon gasps a bit when he takes hold of his wrists without warning to clip them behind Jon’s back, and Martin takes advantage of his distraction to tug the waistband of Jon’s trousers down to expose his boxers. Finally, Martin gets the paddle.

“How many hits do you think you deserve?”

Jon considers. “Twenty.”

“With the paddle? Absolutely not. Try again.”

“Fifteen?”

“Eight.”

“Twelve, please, Martin.”

“Ten. No higher, Jon,” Martin says, seeing him about to ask for more.

“Yes sir,” he yields.

“Count them for me.” And with that, Martin brings the paddle down hard.

“Fuck!” Jon shouts, unable to stop himself in his shock. “One.”

Martin gives the next one to the left. Jon bites down hard on the swear on the tip of his tongue. “Two.”

“This isn’t because you’re bad,” Martin murmurs, continuing to spank Jon. “This is because you’re good, but you made a mistake. That’s okay, pet, mistakes happen, but we need to make up for them when they do, don’t we?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon says, trying to hold back the sudden tears building.

“It’s okay to cry, Jon, it’s okay. This is for your own good, so you can let go of whatever you feel like you did wrong and be a good boy again.”

“Thank you,” Jon sobs as Martin strikes him again. "Seven."

“You’re welcome, pet.”

When they’re done, Martin unclips Jon’s hands, and helps him down off his lap and back onto his knees. Jon’s eyes are red with tears, but he already looks calmer. “You took that so well, pet.” Jon gives him a watery smile. “Are you ready to go do some housework for me like a good little toy?”

“Yes, sir, anything you want.”

“Here’s what I need you to do. There’s a load of laundry in the washer that needs to go in the dryer, and a hamper full of dirty clothes to be washed. Start those first. Then, there are dishes in the sink that I’d like you to wash and put away. After that, come back here so I can give you another task. Got all that?”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Repeat it back to me.”

“I need to move the laundry in the washer to the dryer, and start a new load. Then do the dishes, put them away, and come back here,” Jon recites.

“That’s right, good pet.” Jon begins to stand, but Martin stops him with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back to his knees. “I like that you’re so eager, but I have one more thing for you before you go.” He opens a drawer on the end table and retrieves a ball gag, dangling it from his fingers in front of Jon. “Color?”

Jon’s mouth waters. “Green.”

“Excellent. Turn around.” Jon complies, and opens his mouth obediently when Martin brings the gag to his lips. “You don’t have to worry your pretty head about talking tonight,” Martin says, buckling it. “A sweet little thing like you should just be seen and not heard, isn’t that right?”

Jon nods vigorously.

“Show me your signals for green, yellow, and red when you can’t speak.” Jon snaps once, then twice, then three times in a row. “Good boy. Off you get.” Martin can’t resist giving Jon’s arse a playful slap as he stands. Jon squeaks, but doesn’t protest. “I’ll be here. If you need me - you need help with something, you want the gag off, anything - come get me and I’ll help you.” Jon nods in agreement, and walks off to begin.

Martin watches him go, raking his eyes over his body. He drops the stern act the instant Jon looks away, letting his gaze linger on Jon's cuffs, his collar, the glint of metal where the gag’s buckle stands out against his dark hair. He won’t be fucking Jon tonight, but seeing him like this, wearing marks that _Martin_ put there: there’s no doubt who he belongs to.

Jon starts the laundry in a pleasant haze. He’s drooling around his gag, but that’s easy to forget as he settles into the safety of routine, moving wet clothes to the dryer and starting a new load. He knows how to do this. He knows how much soap to use, and how much of the little scented things that Martin likes to add. It’s _easy,_ it’s _rote,_ he doesn’t have to _think_ about it, he just has to press a few buttons and he’s done. 

Martin listens to Jon’s footsteps as he walks to the sink and begins his next task. The running water and soft clinking of dishes is pleasant background noise as he makes a half-hearted attempt to read. The tap shuts off, and he can just barely see Jon moving around the kitchen as he wipes cups and plates dry and sets them in their proper place. When Jon turns to come back, he quickly picks his book back up and pretends to be absorbed.

Jon walks with quiet purpose to Martin and kneels before him, hands resting palm-up on his thighs, eyes down. He waits, patiently, as Martin sets his book aside and leans back to regard him.

“You’re finished?” Jon nods, hair falling into his face at the movement. Martin takes a moment to tuck it back behind his ear, before running his fingers along Jon’s jawline and gently encouraging him to lift his head. “I said I’d give you another task, didn’t I?” Jon nods again, minutely, as to not disturb Martin’s hand. “Go make me a pot of tea. One of the herbal ones, you can pick. Bring it here when you’re done, along with a new cup. Mine’s gone cold.” Jon waits until Martin takes his hand away from his face to dip his head in acknowledgement. He stands and goes to prepare the tea as Martin picks up his book.

This too is easy. Fill the kettle, put it on its base. Flip the switch to start it heating. Get the teapot, and the tea. He glances over his options before picking a chamomile blend he knows is one of Martin’s favorites. The water’s boiling now. Rinse the teapot with the boiling water, refill it, start the tea steeping, wait for four minutes and change. Bring the tea to Martin.

He uses a cozy to stop the hot ceramic from burning his hands as he carries it back into the living room, glancing questioningly at Martin.

“On the coffee table, pet,” Martin says distractedly, turning a page.

He sets it down as told and trots off to retrieve a mug, as well as a tea strainer, putting it next to the pot. Martin looks up as he does, and shuts his book, keeping his place with his thumb. “No, pet, don’t kneel there, go back a bit. Next to the table.” Jon, about to take his previous place just in front of Martin, stops, steps back a few feet, and goes to his knees. “Now be a good boy and pour me a cup.”

Jon nods, filling the mug before pushing it to the side closest to Martin. Martin leans forward to take it, before settling back onto the couch. He takes a sip, watching Jon coolly.

Jon stays still for a long moment before ducking his head shyly, trying to escape the scrutiny. 

“No, pet. Head up. I want to see that pretty face.” Jon obeys, certain he’s flushing as Martin continues to peruse him. He tips his head back a bit more, showing off his collar, and basks in Martin’s light sound of approval.

“You’re such an obedient little thing. My sweet, devoted pet, all cuffed and collared and _mine_. Maybe you made a mistake earlier today, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve been so good for me, did the chores exactly as I asked, made me tea exactly the way I like it, followed every command I’ve given you, and that’s what’s really important, in the end.”

Martin swirls his now half-empty mug of tea as he continues. “You might let people think that you’re this genteel, erudite academic, but we both know the truth. It’s all an act. At the end of the day, you’re the one kneeling at another man’s feet. You’re the one who’s gagged and bound on my living room floor. You’re the one drooling over being permitted to do my housework. And that’s all you need to be, really - just a pretty little domestic toy for me to order around as I please. Isn’t that right, pet?”

Jon nods blissfully. His head is pleasantly foggy, the day’s missteps dissolving in the face of Martin’s humiliating praise.

“Pour me some more tea.” Jon nods enthusiastically, reaching quickly for the teapot. Too quickly, in fact. He only sees the cup of long-cold tea as he bumps against it - he recoils like he’s been burned, snatching his hand back - but it’s too late. The world moves in slow motion as the cup tips, and spills its contents all over the coffee table. Martin inhales a bit sharply, and Jon’s vision swims, the dreamy feeling he’d been floating on crashing down around him. He looks up at Martin, horror written plainly across his face. He can’t even apologize with the gag in his mouth, can’t beg and plead for forgiveness the way he wants to. The moment hangs in the air.

“Come here,” Martin finally says, gentle but authoritative. Jon obeys, crawling on his hands and knees to Martin’s feet. “Turn around.” Jon whimpers softly when Martin undoes the buckle at the back of his head, removing the gag. It clicks softly on the end table as Martin sets it aside.

Jon’s hands are shaking. Martin wants to join him on the floor and shower him in praise and affection. He wants to gather Jon in his arms and tell him that it’s not his fault, that it’s only a spill, that he forgives him and loves him and that everything is okay. But that would be lenient of him, to let a mistake go unpunished, and Jon asked to be treated without mercy. Martin always prefers to give him what he wants. 

“Pet.”

“Yes sir?” Jon whispers, on the verge of tears.

“Go get some paper towels and clean this up,” he says, firmly, but not unkindly. 

“Yes sir.” He stands shakily. He can’t meet Martin’s eyes as he leaves the room, keeping his head down.

Martin waits until he’s gone to tip his head back and let out a long, slow breath. This is what Jon needs, what he asked for, but it’s hard to see him genuinely upset. It’s even harder to be the reason for his distress.

Jon returns momentarily with napkins to mop the mess up, leaves to throw them away and comes back. He kneels again on the floor, slightly curled in on himself with his head bowed, hands in his lap. The picture of contrition.

“Fix your posture.” Jon straightens his back immediately. Martin puts a hand under Jon’s chin and gently directs him to look up. Jon follows the motion with his head, but keeps his eyes downcast, still refusing to lift his gaze from the floor. “Look at me, pet.” 

Jon flicks his eyes up to make eye contact, but he struggles to maintain it even at the best of times. Martin watches him get more and more frustrated with himself as his reddened eyes dart to and away from Martin’s face, trying _so hard_ to keep his gaze trained on Martin for longer than a moment before he has to break it away again. 

“It’s okay, Jon. You can look at my hair, or the wall behind me, or you can close your eyes if you need to. I just need to be able to see your face right now.”

Jon visibly sags a bit in relief, a breath escaping him as his gaze shifts up, to some indistinct point over Martin’s head. “Thank you sir,” he whispers, so quietly that he’s nearly just mouthing the words.

“Do you remember what I said about punishments earlier?”

“You said,” Jon’s hands twist at the hem of his t-shirt, “you said that you don’t punish me because I’m bad, you punish me because I’m a, a good boy.”

“That’s right. You’re so good at listening to me, so clever.” Jon would preen at that, usually, but now he stifles a small sob. “And I said that mistakes just happen sometimes, right?” Jon nods, earnestly. “But?”

“But I have to make up for them when they do.”

“Yes.” Martin re-evaluates his previous plan. “I don’t want to hit you again, because I don’t think you’re in a good headspace for that right now.” He stops, considering his options. 

Apparently, the silence goes on too long, because Jon shifts in place and asks, “Martin?” in a small, timid voice.

“I’m here, I was just thinking. What do you need?”

Jon shakes his head. “I just thought that,” he pauses, “Well, I don’t know what I thought. You’re just… you’re being quiet, and I got nervous.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, pet. I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry. But I have an idea for how you’re going to make up for the tea, now.” He stands. “Crawl after me.”

Jon does so eagerly, following Martin the short distance to the corner of the room. “Kneel there. Facing the wall, please.” He goes, a puzzled look on his face, looking up at Martin for further direction. “Kneel up, and put your hands behind your head.” 

Martin watches him obey. “For the next ten minutes,” he says, pulling his phone out, “you are not allowed to serve me.” He ignores the tiny whine that Jon lets out at that. “In fact, you are not allowed to do anything at all, except hold this position. I’m starting a timer on my phone now.” He does, setting it to silent mode - if he needs to, he can fake the alarm going off early. “Do your best not to move, or speak unless it’s a safeword. Am I understood, pet?” Jon nods. “Good.”

Martin walks back to the couch, picking up his book with no intention of reading it. He sits back, flipping a page, and settles in to watch Jon.

Jon is trying desperately not to cry. It’s a losing battle. He manages to suppress the sob roiling in his chest, but the tears still trickle. His thoughts are a maelstrom, confused fragments of shame and guilt flying into his head and just as quickly being ripped away. His arms and knees are already beginning to ache a little.

Martin checks the timer. Seven minutes to go. Jon is sniffling a bit, but he seems much calmer now. He’s not shaking anymore, at least, and his breathing is evening out.

Jon can hear Martin turning pages behind him, and he hates it. He wants to beg for his attention, wants to be tossed over his knee and spanked the way Martin usually punishes him. He’s half tempted to speak, or move, just so Martin will stop ignoring him long enough to chastise him, but then he might add time for the infraction.

Three minutes left.

Jon’s swirling thoughts manage to coalesce into one, horrible possibility. Maybe Martin simply decided that, for all his praise, Jon just wasn’t good enough to bother with anymore. His composure breaks at that thought, and he sobs, abruptly, everything he’d been holding down in order to be quiet and still now bubbling to the surface at once. 

Martin starts up immediately. “Jon?”

He’s crying too hard to answer. He barely registers Martin practically running to his side, brushing his hair out of his face, saying his name again and again.

Martin is terrified. He crouches, getting on Jon’s level and taking his face in his hands. “Jon, darling, I need you to give me a color, please,” he begs.

Jon cries harder. Now, on top of everything else, he’s upset Martin. What’s he asking for, again? Color? “I,” he tries to say. He wants to stop, but his mind is still reeling too quickly to know what he needs beyond that. “I don’t know,” he sobs, “I’m sorry, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Red,” Martin says. “Red, Jon, we’re done. We’re done. It’s okay, don’t cry, please don’t cry.” Jon collapses, falling back to sit on his heels and reaching blindly for Martin, who pulls him in close. Martin clings to him, whispering frantic praise and platitudes until Jon’s sobs fade. “Jon?” No response. He pulls back to see Jon’s face, and finds that he’s cried himself to sleep. He stands, gently carrying Jon to bed, and he presses a kiss to his forehead before he goes to prep aftercare.

\---

When Jon wakes up, he finds himself lying in bed, covered with fluffy blankets. He shifts slightly, taking stock of himself, and finds that he’s no longer wearing his collar, or his cuffs. Martin is sitting next to him, watching something on his computer.

“Martin?” His voice is hoarse.

Martin looks up, and shuts his laptop when he sees Jon’s awake. “I have water. And some fruit.”

After Jon’s been fed and watered, Martin doesn’t push him to talk about the scene. For a while, they just sit together in silence, Jon’s head in Martin’s lap. In the end, Jon speaks first.

“I’m sorry.”

Martin starts to respond, before stopping, confusion flowing over his features. “What on earth are you sorry for?”

“I got in my feelings and messed up the scene. It was a dumb reason, too.”

“Anything that makes you upset is a good reason to stop a scene, and it doesn’t mean you messed it up.” He sighs. “I’d like to talk about that reason, so we can avoid it in the future, but we can wait until the morning if you want.”

Jon shakes his head. “We can do it now.”

“Okay.” Martin’s hand finds its way to Jon’s hair, and Jon sighs gratefully, the contact grounding him. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“It’s stupid.”

“I really doubt that, but I’d like to hear it regardless, if that’s okay.”

“I thought,” Jon pauses to swallow the lump in his throat, “I thought maybe I wasn’t being good enough, so you didn’t want me anymore.”

“Oh, love.”

Jon rushes on. “And I know you do, of course you do, you love me, I know that, but- well, I asked for the scene because I fucked up all day, and you gave me instructions so simple that no one could possibly fuck them up, and then I managed to do it anyway. And the punishment wasn’t bad or anything, it would have been fine most other times, but all I wanted was to be useful, to serve you, and I was in the right headspace for it and everything, and then I wasn’t allowed to. So I felt like I fucked up so bad I wasn’t even a good enough sub to be worth ordering around anymore, and that’s why you were ignoring me.” He stops. “I told you it was stupid. I know you love me, so none of that makes any sense.”

When Martin speaks, there’s an odd timbre to his voice that Jon can’t quite place. “When did you start feeling like that?”

Jon shrugs as much as he’s able to, lying down. “After the punishment started. A few minutes, maybe.” He sits up to get a better point of view. “Why do you- Martin!”

Martin’s crying now, though he pretends otherwise when Jon sees. “Sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, “it’s not your fault. I’m so sorry, Jon. I wasn’t ignoring you, I promise. It’s just- you- you _told_ me that you got nervous when I stopped talking to you for just a moment after you knocked the cup over, and I didn’t even think,” he pauses, breath hitching. “I was watching you the whole time, and you dropped, and- and I didn’t realize that anything was wrong. God, I even noticed that you stopped reacting to praise the way you usually do. How the fuck did I miss this?” His voice breaks, and he stops abruptly, collecting himself.

Jon takes one of Martin’s hands in his and kisses his knuckles. “It’s not your fault either, you know,” he says. “You couldn’t even see my face when I dropped. What were you supposed to do, read my mind?" Martin huffs a tiny laugh at that. "I should have said something when I started to spiral. That’s my mistake.” He can see Martin about to argue, so he interrupts before Martin has time to retort. “Listen, can we just write this off as a fluke? We both had things we could have done better, and they piled up in a bad way. I’ll say something when I’m uncomfortable in the future, I promise.”

“I promise I’ll pay more attention, and check in with you more often. Especially if you’ve been in subspace for a while and there’s a chance you’ll drop.”

“Deal.” Jon sits up and tugs on Martin’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. Martin obliges, resting his head on Jon’s shoulder when they part.

“I was so scared. I thought I’d broken you.”

Jon kisses his cheek. “You would never.”

Martin doesn’t respond, just leans further into Jon, pressing a kiss to the hand he’s holding. The two of them drift off like that, taking comfort in each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I'm so hung up on this tea thing! Like I know I have a service kink but why do I like this specific scenario so much? Is it the warm drink? The care-taking aspect? Kneeling? Did I hear the phrase "tea service" once and it stuck around until it turned into its own kink? The world may never know
> 
> this probably could have used more editing but if I kept reading it my brain was going to explode so. here it is!


End file.
